


The White Gulls Are Crying

by striderspy



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies), The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pirates of the Caribbean Fusion, Gen, Tags May Change, bilbo has anxiety issues, tags will definitely change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-03
Updated: 2015-03-13
Packaged: 2018-02-28 01:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2714297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/striderspy/pseuds/striderspy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins is happy.</p><p>No, really, he is. He has his books and his armchair, his free range job as a mapmaker and his hobbit hole overlooking the sea. 'What more could a hobbit want?' he asks himself, and shoves down any feelings of loneliness or exclusion that he may or may not have. He's content, he's comfortable, he's happy. The one thing he most definitely isn't, is a navigator. When a party of dwarves and a certain wizard come crashing into his hobbit hole claiming otherwise, what can Bilbo do but get caught up in their mess? And suddenly he's setting off to reclaim a homeland, slay a human-bound dragon and, oh yes, find a single ship in the entirety of Middle-Ocean! That is, if he can bear to leave his life behind and join leagues with the most unlikely, patchwork crew of pirates.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thorn's Appeal

**Author's Note:**

> _'To the Sea, to the Sea! The white gulls are crying,_  
>  _The wind is blowing, and the white foam is flying._  
>  _West, west away, the round sun is falling._  
>  _Grey ship, grey ship, do you hear them calling,_  
>  _The voices of my people that have gone before me?'_  
>  \- Song for the Sea, J.R.R. Tolkien.

Thorin Oakenshield was not generally a nervous dwarf.

He could fight armies of orcs without hesitation, for he was sure of his blade; he could sail the most perilous, wind-swept, and creature infested waters known to the free peoples without blinking an eye, for he was sure of his own skill; and he could face the brute force of his sister’s wrath, though he wasn't quite sure how he managed that. Rightfully, he was a king. He took pride in his heritage, in his position, in his loyalty towards both his people and his cause, One thing that he could no longer do was ask the elves of Middle-Ocean for aid. And yet, as Thorin Oakenshield stood in front of the driftwood doors of the Pirate Council chamber, he found himself doing just that.

Before Thorin could think to raise his hand and knock, the door was swept open and he was told to enter. He walked towards the long table, centered in the room, looking at the pirate crews and Pirate Lords practically smothering it as he went. There were seven Pirate Lords in total – three elves, two wizards, a dwarf, and the enigmatic Pirate King. The Pirate King was never seen outside of the Brethren Court, and therefore, his identity was a mystery.  Thorin had heard that when the Pirate King was absent, one of the elves often took his place, making decisions on behalf of the court. And a glance at the empty throne resting at the head of the table was all he needed to once again become tense.

Thorin realised that it wasn’t asking aid of the elves that made him nervous. Rather, the elves made him angry. He turned his regard to the faces of the Pirate Lords, and Thorin thought perhaps it was the Lords themselves that lit his nerves. They were the governing force of all piracy in Arda, as well as Middle-Ocean, and while they had no set laws, to go against the orders of the Brethren Court was an act of piracy in itself. Then again, Thorin reasoned, he’d never had problems with authority before. As his eyes passed Lord Thranduil, he muttered to himself: ‘well, almost never.’

Thorin caught the eye of Dain, the only dwarf to remain a Pirate Lord, and he was given small nod. Thorin lowered his head in return and pointedly avoided looking at the empty seat beside Dain. Maybe it was the lack of authority that made him ill-at-ease, Thorin thought, glancing at the other empty chair on the opposite side of the table. Something churned in his stomach at the two empty chairs; at the sight of one, he felt mournful and isolated, but those feelings were quickly consumed by the resentment and anger he felt over the next. His emotion drove him forward to the end of table where he stood silently fuming, waiting to be addressed.

After a moment the pirate crews hushed and the Pirate Lord Galadriel stood from her position near the head of the table. Her movements were fluid, her voice like a clear sky – beautiful and promising, “Thorin Oakenshield, what is it you seek?” Thorin shook his head clear – the elves were deceitful, he knew that. Their voices were testimony enough.

Thorin’s eyes flicked from Galadriel to the throne at the head of the table. As he looked back at the elf he though he could see the corner of her lips curling ever so slightly. No, Thorin decided, it was definitely the unknowable Pirate King that made him nervous. The Pirate King had never once graced an audience with his presence, only his voice. And yet, he was known to be one of the most fearsome pirates in all of Middle-Ocean, pillaging and plundering where he wished.

Thorin had heard tales of The Pirate King, as had all pirates. Ones where he was told to be the capturer of many trading ships, quite a few of which were apparently transporting tea. Others where he had, with a single ship, led an attack upon the East-India Trading Company, capturing their war galleon. In later years, The Pirate King had been said to have faked his own death to escape the government, and there was even a story of him nailing an enemy to the deck and then having his crew beat and whip him senseless. In some places, he was even known as a fierce hellcat.

The King’s reputation in the earlier years made him look rather moral – for a pirate, anyway. Thorin didn’t know if the lack of The Pirate King’s presence was because he continued to sail or simply didn’t like dealing with beggars of The Court. Of which, Thorin begrudgingly remembered, he was one himself.

Thorin tried to clear his throat – he could almost feel his father’s reputation weighing down upon his shoulders. The Pirate Lords all had certain expectations of his father, and today, Thorin was his only representative. “I wish to call upon The Pirate King for an audience.”

“What right have you to do that?” Lord Thranduil asked, eyes narrowed and chin lifted in contempt. Lord Thranduil was not only an elf, which would create tension enough, but he held a bitter regard towards the entire line of Durin. Thorin couldn’t remember him being any more amiable when addressing his father, either.

He fought to keep from rolling his eyes, but in doing so, he practically sneered at the elf, “I have the right of my father before me.” Thranduil may be a Pirate Lord, but he had no right to question Thorin’s heritage – his birthright. Thorin watched Lord Elrond, the third elf of the court, go to speak, but before the words could leave his mouth he was cut off.

“Son of Thrain, son of Thrór.” The Pirate Lords before him stilled at the voice that could only be the Pirate King’s. The voice was commanding yet soft, comforting yet stern. With such a small voice, Thorin was surprised by how unsettled he felt, and that in itself caught him off guard. Whatever he imagined the Pirate King to sound like, this wasn’t it. “Thorin Oakenshield is at my door.”

Thorin swallowed thickly, apprehensively, waiting for the king to appear, but he remained in the back room, only his voice travelling out through the doorway. The Pirate King continued, amusement sparking the edges of his voice. “What is it? What do you want?”

This, Thorin hadn’t anticipated. He clasped his hands behind his back to stop them from shaking and straightened his shoulders, “I have come to request the assistance of the Brethren Court. I ask you, join with me and help me to reclaim my family’s ship. My family’s waters. My homeland. I know the Pirate Council is loyal, vengeful, and I beg you now to not abandon my father, as I stand in his place as one of the pirate lords amongst you-,”

“But you’re not quite a pirate lord, are you, Oakenshield?”

Thorin bristled; he opened his mouth, barely managing to shut it against a bitter curse a moment later. He fought to stop his appeal from turning aggressive. To insult The Pirate King would do him no favours, but a glance at Dain told him that he wasn’t the only one struggling against the King’s decisions. With a deep breath, and hands curling into fists, he spoke again. “I hold the right to that title as did my late father before me.”

“Now that _is_ the question, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

Thorin could hear the floorboards creaking through the doorway to the Pirate King’s chamber, but he could hear no boots, no footsteps. The Pirate King’s voice came again, almost regretful for the words he spoke. “ _Is_ your father dead? You cannot take another pirate lord’s place unless you hold their piece of eight, or are their rightful successor.”

“As I am-!”

“But how do we _know_ that he is gone? Can we be sure?”

Thorin felt his temper rising at the sense of familiarity and mourning the King expressed, yet how easily it was tossed aside in his appeal. How _dare_ he show grief yet seek no way to right it! Thorin clenched his jaw again to bite back his curses, “I watched my father vanish and not return. I watched the sinking, burning ships of my kin. I heard their screams.” He looked down from the Pirate Lords before his face betrayed his full emotion. “None were left that day.”

“Until you come forward with proof we simply cannot aid you. Bring his piece of eight, or proof of his death, then you shall be considered the pirate lord in his place.”

“And then you will help me?”

The question hung heavy in the air too long for Thorin’s liking before the unseen voice addressed him. “Thorin Oakenshield, you have been quite privileged to come before our council, to speak with us, when you have no such right to speak of. Do not test our patience. Do not try my own. You are to find your father, or find his piece of eight. Then, and _only_ then, can you come before us again.”

Thorin stepped forward, his fist colliding with the table in his anger, “My father could be anywhere in _any_ sea of Middle Ocean! I _beseech_ you, this isn’t fair!” Thorin pleaded, looking at each Pirate Lord in turn. Gandalf couldn’t meet his gaze.

Thranduil, on the contrary, was trying to stare him down. “Life is not fair, Oakenshield, but the terms set by the Pirate King are our laws and must be treated as such.

“Lord Thranduil, please.” Gandalf had stood, raising himself above the other Pirate Lords both physically and figuratively. “Thorin is right. Thrain may well be at the bottom of any of our oceans along with his piece of eight. Even if Thrain isn’t dead it could take a lifetime to find him, more than that. More time than Thorin has opportunity.

“Something rather sure fire then.” The Pirate King sounded almost teasing now, all of his apparent earlier regrets and sympathies fizzled like a match thrown into water. “The Arkenstone.”

Thorin’s blood ran cold. “The Arkenstone,” he echoed numbly, arms crossing across his chest.

“Your father’s ship. It is an heirloom of Durin, if I am correct. That ship rightfully belongs to you just as your father’s piece of eight does. So, Thorin, son of Thrain,” The Pirate King paused, and when he spoke again Thorin could feel the cold smile through the words, “show us that you can commandeer what is quite rightfully yours, and we may let you return.”

“How can I find a single ship in all the oceans?” Thorin closed his eyes against a wave of emotion. Never should his meeting have come to this, but before he drew his next breath he already knew that he would search the world for that ship, using everything that he was. But that didn’t help the bitter, keen ache of loss pounding heavily against his chest. “In case you are forgetting, that ship was stolen by Smaug.”

“Oh, I know. Rather fitting, don’t you think?” The Pirate King smiled through his words and Thorin hated him all the more for it. “If you want me to help you, you will find your father or find your ship. We cannot wait forever, Thorin Oakenshield. We are now in summer, and I shall give you until the end of autumn to return with your ship,” The pirate king’s voice turned teasing. “That is, if you want out help.”

Thorin’s hands turned to fists and his teeth ground together so hard he felt pain blooming into his cheekbones. “Then I shall return,” he said, and left without another word, his heavy steps falling on protesting floorboards.

 

 

 

At the head of the table, upon a raised platform, resided the Pirate King’s throne. It was chiefly made from driftwood and shipwreck – as there was always an ever-growing abundance in Shipwreck Cove – and the armrests and seat were overlaid with heavy furs. The backboard of the throne was a large, yellowing turtle shell with cracks along the sides and warg bones overhanging; rib cages and skulls and femurs, arranged together to look like antlers. Smaller warg bones hung down the sides and from the armrests, ribs and claws and teeth brushing the floor.

And when the Pirate King slouched into his throne, humming a small tune, he looked positively tiny.

As he settled, he toyed with a string of warg bones tied around his neck, face hidden by unruly hair and a vibrant, red hat low over his brow. A heavy, contemplative silence fell over the Brethren Court, and The Pirate King finally spoke. "Gandalf, my old friend, you clearly have something to say.”

Gandalf scratched his brow, his head bent down to avoid the gaze of the other Pirate Lords. “I believe that we should help Thorin Oakenshield reclaim the island.”

Mutterings of sighs and curses came from all directions of the council. “Gandalf,” The Pirate King warned.

“Smaug owes allegiance to no one – not any more. How long will it be before he strikes again? Strikes us?”

“That wyrm’s greed _must_ be satisfied for now,” said Saruman, Pirate Lord of Isengard. “An entire island, fleet, and bloodline, he has taken.”

“A pirate’s greed is never satisfied. You know that,” The Pirate King smiled. “Shipwreck Cove is a fortress, a well armed and protected fortress. Smaug would never make it into the bay.”

Gandalf’s brows furrowed in a knitted mess as he looked around the table at the other Pirate Lords. “It is not Shipwreck Cove I am talking about. There is Rivendell, Lothlórien, Mirkwater,” Elrond and Galadriel glanced at each other, seeming to have unreadable expressions.

“We are safe in our waters. Other lands are not my concern.” Lord Thranduil added.

“But Smaug _is_ ,” Gandalf insisted, “I fear we cannot stop him unless we stop him now. Before he has another chance to strike! Would it not make sense to join with Thorin? To fight Smaug as a force?”

“Smaug was dealt with, Gandalf. He was exiled from us, from all. He is to be gunned down on sight, not hunted or sought after.”

“Smaug took his homeland, killed his people. At the very least we owe Thorin our help, do we not?” Gandalf looked pleadingly at the other council members.

Voices rose at the same time, clashing with agreements and disagreements – pirates rebuked the thought of owing someone, let alone be owing something they didn’t see fit as deserved, but Thrain was one of their own, and if they were to repay a debt to the line of Durin at any point, it would surely be on his behalf.

Another Pirate Lord spoke, trying at a new angle for Thorin’s aid. “We have an opening from Smaug’s treachery, who better to fill it? He was raised a pirate and continues to live as such to this day. Surely that position could be given to Thorin Oakenshield.” Pirate Lord Dain Ironfoot, the sole dwarf remaining in the Brethren Court, was Thorin’s cousin. Reluctant as he was to give up the plight to aid Thorin, he knew that his own opinion would only go so far in the Pirate Court.

“On what grounds?” Elrond demanded. ”He has no place amongst us and he has no allegiance to us beyond that of his father’s.”

Before Gandalf could rise to answer, Saruman cut in like a dagger, dividing the conversation from its core. “Do you linger too much with common-folk that you think you are superior here too?” he sneered, “You are a pirate lord, Gandalf, not the pirate king.”

“Silence, Saruman,” The Pirate King’s voice spoke softly, but was heard highest above all.

All was silent for only a moment before Dain growled, glaring at Saruman’s audacious claims. “Places to spare or no, Thorin _deserves_ that position.”

“How so? By what merit? What has Thorin Oakenshield ever done for the White Council?” The Pirate King huffed, “You may see him of some value, Dain, but family is bias and so he must prove his worth to _us_.”

Dain sat heavily in his chair, fists curling around the armrests.

“Besides,” The Pirate King continued, “Dwarven braids do not make you a pirate, much less a Lord of Pirates. Braids are a sign of honour among dwarves – a sign of great deeds. Braids make you a dwarf, and if I’m not mistaken, Lord Dain, Thorin Oakenshield does not have his braids, does he? Nor a proper beard, I noticed that he wore his rather short. Why do you think that is?”

Dain’s lip curled, his voice grating against his words. He could bear the teasing about dwarven culture just so long as he could give as good as he got, but to dishonour a dwarf, albeit kinsfolk, he would not bear it lightly, “Do not mock my kin,” he warned, fixing his glare upon The Pirate King.

“I do not mock, let alone mock grief.” The Pirate Lord’s fingers tightened around a warg bone, his words heightening suddenly. “You and I know the ways of dwarves, of dwarrows, do we not? He wears no braids for the same reason he does not grow his beard: he does not feel that he has earned it. His braids were cut his beard was burnt, and he has _chosen_ not to regrow them. Now, if a supposed king feels he does not have honour enough for his people, what is he? What is he to us?”

Lord Thranduil raised a shoulder in a half-aborted attempt at a shrug, and glanced over the dwarf as if he were a pest, rather than a lord, “If Oakenshield does not feel worthy of his position, I feel it may be best not to give him one.”

Dain flung himself from his chair, and would have leapt at Thranduil across the table, if not for Gandalf’s arm across the dwarf’s chest. Thranduil made no move save from a slight crease in his brow, causing Dain to growl. Gandalf pushed him back into his seat and rose to speak for him, not trusting the dwarf to say anything but Khuzdul curses. “Just because Thorin Oakensheild is in mourning for his people, it does not mean that he doesn’t have the right to represent them in his father’s place as one of the Pirate Council Lords.”

All eyes turned to the Pirate King lounging in his throne, rhythmically tapping the armrest and squinting at Gandalf. The king raised an eyebrow as Dain went to stand up again, but he began talking before the dwarf had a chance.

“Alright, Gandalf,” Addressed the Pirate King, his head cocking to one side, pointing at the wizard with a warg bone from around his neck. “If you are so keen to help Thorin Oakenshield with his quest, why don’t you do so? The Brethren Court shall not intervene in any of Oakenshield’s matters until he has his father’s piece of eight, ship, or corpse. However, you _are_ your own pirate.”

“He is a representative of the council!”

The pirate king cocked his pistol, readily aimed at Thranduil’s head. “He is a representative of council if _I say_ he is, and he is not.”

Thranduil’s eyebrows raised a fraction before he bowed his head and lingered silently.

“Let’s do this the old fashioned way then, hmm? How about a vote?” The discomfort of the pirate lords was almost tangible. Voting could lead to wars with disagreement. “Now, now, don’t get so worked up. Whichever side is held in favour will stand. No wars shall come from this court will I live and breathe. Gandalf, you’re obviously for your own cause, anyone else?”

Galadriel, the Pirate Lord of Lothlórien rose from her chair and nodded once, “I believe that he is right to help Thorin Oakenshield,”

“As do I!” bellowed Dain before Galadriel had the opportunity to say anything more. “Thorin is my kin, and if Gandalf can do as he says, I would stand by him. In fact-,”

“Dain,” The pirate king warned, and the dwarf quickly grew silent. The Pirate King gestured at another pirate lord with a warg bone. “Saruman?”

The white wizard pushed his shoulders back and squinted in his scepticism. “I think it is an absurd idea! The bare notion, I know it shall be best if Gandalf stays.”

After him, Thranduil sighed deeply and tapped his slender fingers against the table top. “Thorin Oakenshield needs no incentive, nor any help. I think it would be wisest to leave him be.”

The pirate king hummed appreciatively before turning to the last pirate lord, skipping past the empty seat. “And you, lord Elrond?”

Elrond hesitated, his brows furrowing as he watched Gandalf. “I, too, do not think it would be wise. Forgive me, Gandalf, but I fear that Thorin Oakenshield’s quest will set in motion forces that we do not understand. I can see no way for this to benefit the Brethren Court.”

“Lord Elrond, you’re rather honourable,” The pirate king commended, “for a pirate, at least.”

“If I seeking to benefit myself is honourable then I daresay that pirates are the most respectable people there are, my king.”

The pirate king nodded, a slow smile creeping across his face. He stood from his throne abruptly and began pacing, “Very well, voting never _does_ quite work out.” The pirate king stopped and looked the grey wizard in the eye, “Gandalf, you are perhaps my oldest friend, and most steadfast companion. If you believe that you are needed to aid Oakenshield then I trust that you know what you’re doing.” The Pirate King’s lips pulled into a quick grin, “Or thereabouts.”

Gandalf fought to keep his own tight-lipped smile from growing, “My king.”

 

 

 

“Thorin?” Gandalf called down the hall. He stood beyond the doorway, watching the dwarf impatiently take back his weapons from a waiting elf. He threw his bag over his shoulder and tied his sword around his waist, movements unfocused, almost hasty.

“It’s not a good sign when you feel yourself beginning to resent the very council you wish to join, is it?” Thorin shook his head with a weary sigh and crossed his arms over his chest, “What do you want, wizard?”

For all the many years that Gandalf had known Thorin, and both his father and grandfather before him, he’d always found it a challenge to tolerate the temperament of dwarves. And Thorin was one of the worst. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

Thorin paused and tried for a smile, “Haven’t you heard? I have yet to find my father’s corpse. A journey awaits me.” Thorin tightened the buckles of his shield and studied the map in front of him. “I have heard rumours of Dunland. I will begin there.”

Gandalf frowned and came closer, leaning against his staff, “You are not going to go _looking_ for your father. Wherever he may be, we all know that he is lost.”

For a moment, Thorin’s face betrayed something vulnerable – something that reminded Gandalf of the dwarven child he once was. Thorin looked away and scoffed, face hidden once more. “Then I suppose I should be thanking you for your generosity.” Gandalf came to sit at the table where Thorin was standing and looked over the map in front of him. Not a map of the oceans or Shipwreck Cove or Dunland at all, but rather solely of Erebor and its surrounding waters. “It would be easier to find my father over The Arkenstone. A ship may be harder to hide, but in the hands of Smaug she is all but sunk and gone.” Thorin’s mouth quirked in a sad smile. “I would rather her so.”

“You know you cannot find your father, and you are refusing to look for the Arkenstone.” Gandalf watched Thorin’s expression turn sombre as he spoke. “You cannot give in so easily. What do you plan to do?”

Thorin took the map from the table, folded it, and put it in the pocket of his leather coat. He picked up his tricorne hat and worried the edge with his thumb before finally looking Gandalf in the eye. “I shall take back Erebor myself.”

Gandalf pinched the bridge of his nose. _Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves._ “Thorin, don’t be a fool. Stubbornness has lead to many a downfall of pirates, particularly dwarves. You cannot take back Erebor on your own – with your family it was impossible to reclaim even Moria from Azog. Smaug not only has Erebor and The Arkenstone, but Azog with him.”

As Gandalf spoke Thorin had turned away. He listened to the sea lapping up against the near rocks, eyes distant, lost in the thoughts he could never fully shake. “You think I have forgotten the battle that killed my grandfather. My brother. My father. And Vili. It is only Dìs, her sons and I left. I would see my sister-sons in their rightful place. If I do not deserve to rule from my father before me, then they deserve a home at the very least.”

“Frerin’s death is not of your doing. Neither is Thror’s, nor Thrain’s, nor Vili’s.”

“And yet I am the one who survives.” For the first time in months, Thorin let himself feel the heaviness of grief. They entered into Moria’s waters with such surety, and Thorin was the one who left. He fled from battle. He had watched Azog carve his name into Thrór’s forehead and Thorin felt the memory like a knife in his own. He had seen the ships Azanulbizar and Mirrormere burning together with Frerin aboard and Thorin’s heart burned with him. Vili was beheaded, Thrain was lost, and Thorin was left a coward in the world. “The Brethren Court exploited my grief before me.”

“Thorin, listen to me, to take back Erebor by yourself would be suicide. Dìs would have no benefit from your death. Fìli and Kìli would have no home. Trust in me – together we can commandeer your ship.”

“It’s impossible. You and I both know that The Arkenstone is the crown jewel of all ships. She’s fast, nigh uncatchable. I hate to think of her in the hands of that mongrel, but Gandalf, it can’t be done. Not in five short months. Even if we were to find her, he will be evasive and quick, leaving no trail or easy way to fight.” Thorin felt his chest tighten at the thought. The Arkenstone was all that he had left of his family line, and it was being sailed under the command of Smaug. Without Erebor he was homeless, but without The Arkenstone he was nameless. “She sails half a world away… it is impossible.”

“Yes it is,” Gandalf said. Thorin deflated at his confirmation, but watched as the wizard sat straighter, venturesome twinkle in his eyes that Thorin couldn’t help but feel nervous over. “Which is why we’re going to need a navigator.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Our fandom is seriously lacking in PoTC crossovers so I've taken matters into my own hands.) Surprisingly well-mannered pirates? I know. And yes, the Brethren Court, Pirate Court and White Council are all the same thing. Different races, different words for the same thing.
> 
> I couldn't tell you when the next chapter will be up because my beta has just abandoned me for England. Rude. (jks ily) But I'll work as fast as I can! Thank you so much for reading!


	2. Bilbo's Guests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gandalf finds Thorin's navigator. Although, enlisting him might be a somewhat more difficult task, if Bilbo has anything to say about it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heya! Although I'm a little bit later than when I planned, I'm back again - unfortunately, my beta is not, so this chapter is unbetaed. At least, for now it is. It'll be fixed up in the future, but in the mean time, if you see anything wrong, let me know. Thank you! :)

Bilbo was happy.

He would wake up in the late morning, feeling satisfied with every pop his spine made as he stretched and blinked blearily into the sunlight, the bright day already busy on the other side of his closed bedroom windows. Occasionally, it was his parlour windows he woke up to, when he’d fallen asleep at work – maps spread out on the table under his head, a crick in his neck, tea and fire both long gone cold by hours.

Far too often these days, he’d raise his head, feeling refreshed but unrested, and realise that something felt… off. It was hard to say what it was. He wouldn’t stoop so far as to say that he was lonely, he was just… getting used to it. Getting used to being alone; getting used to the hollowness of his hobbit hole. _Still_ getting used to it. How quiet and dead it felt compared to the vibrancy of life outside, booming with trade and cheerful voices and children’s games. It takes time to get used to things, he would tell himself.

He’d shake off his feelings like spider webs across his thoughts and go about his day, dreams fading with the dawn of the sun. Usually, it wasn’t until he’d finished his second breakfast, had a nice cup of tea, and began to water his garden that he felt at peace with the routine of his days. He’d water his way across the garden, muttering the names of flowers as he went. “Yarrow, poppies, daffodils…”

When he decided that he wasn’t being productive enough doing small jobs and puttering around the house, and to begin on any proper task would be altogether too big for his numb state of mind, he would go to the markets.

The markets of Hobbiton were, in a word, bountiful. _Colourful._ While the stores in the Hobbiton had all that he would need with food and finery, the markets couldn’t be matched in their finery. Being the central port of the larger land of the Shire, traders came by the boatload to sell their goods and wares. Wine and mead from Rivendell; ink and paper stock from Lothlórien; crafts and toys from Dale; stone ornaments, weapons and armour – which Bilbo could admire, but admit he had little use for beyond an ornament – from the Iron Hills; but what Bilbo liked best was the honey from Carrock. It was creamy and buttery; it tasted like flowers and wilderness. When he was younger he’d trek to the markets just for the honey, hands in the hands of his parents and they’d lift him together, swinging him into the sky to his absolute delight.

Bilbo shook the memory from his mind and took a steadying breath. He wouldn’t have any of that today.

Upon his visits to the markets Bilbo found he was forever buying more ink and parchment, and today he felt only _slightly_ more justified in his purchases, telling himself that the new paper stock could be used to make a start on his Naval commissioned maps for the twists of the Brandywine river. Or, he would’ve made a start, only Master Worrywart was out of his favourite Indian Blue ink, and wouldn’t get a new shipment until next week.

Stalling the return to Bag End, high up and lonely on the cliff face, Bilbo bought a nice fresh fish for his dinner and eventually decided he’d have an early night, perhaps finish reading his book, and then begin his work on the Brandywine charts tomorrow.

At least, that _was_ the plan, up until he stumbled into a rather large hobbit. _Or, not a hobbit_ , Bilbo realised, staggering back, _a man_.

The man turned and looked down at Bilbo from beneath his big bushy eyebrows that went up and up until they disappeared beneath his hat. Bilbo’s heart dropped to his feet – this was no man, but a wizard. A wizard that could very well smite him where he stood.

Bilbo swallowed back what fear he could, cleared his throat, and tried not to look the wizard directly in the eyes. “My apologies, I wasn’t looking where I was going and-and I’m-,”

The wizard began to laugh, amusing and joyful, and Bilbo chuckled nervously with him, his trying smile barely held off a grimace.

He’d never seen a wizard before. No, that’s not true. Not in a long time, though. Old Took used to know a wizard who made excellent fireworks for his birthday celebrations, and when he was a young hobbit his mother and father often had a funny bearded wizard around for tea. Other than that, wizards weren’t heard of in the Shire. This wizard was tall with a long cloak and a grey scarf and a big, pointed hat curling back like a wave. He had the grandest beard Bilbo had ever seen – which wasn’t hard, considering hobbits didn’t have beards, although the Old Took came close – and a staff almost twice the size of a hobbit. The wizard’s eyes were old and lined, but bright, and there was some mischievous glint hidden away that made Bilbo fidget.

“Ah! Bilbo Baggins, just the hobbit I wanted to see.”

Bilbo’s mind dropped its thought completely. _Say something, say something!_ But his tongue was numb, and he couldn’t muster more than a dull “What?”

“Yes, yes, you’re the spitting image of dear Belladonna, my boy!”

The rest of his body went numb. This time his voice was hardly more than a breath. “What?”

The wizard smiled at him and raised his eyebrows, peering down at the hobbit and waiting for him to stutter his words through to something important. But he couldn’t. For such a slow day it became a relatively big one all at once. Looking back, Bilbo would remember the moment quite fondly. He’d tell the story as a meeting between old friends and ignore the sight out of the corner of his eye, the amusement Gandalf couldn’t smother. But for now, Bilbo thought about the lovely, peculiar old wizard his mother used to have over for tea. Such a tall wizard who had to duck inside the hobbit hole and stoop under the beams. Gandalf the old wizard who loved the hobbit dances and the communal smoking circles. Gandalf the Grey who he’d attacked with the little wooden sword given to him by the Old Took when he was told to stop pestering the other hobbit children watching the puppet shows. Gandalf the dear old family friend who had responded in kind and flicked his scarf at Bilbo’s sword swipes. And the penny dropped.

“Gandalf.”

The wizard’s smile settled into a more comfortable familiarity. “Yes, glad to see that you remember me.”

“Oh, Gandalf,” Bilbo stuck out his hand to shake the wizard’s, his words flowing much more fluidly now. “How are you? It _has_ been a long time. You really must visit for tea.”

“Now, now, Bilbo, put your manners aside for the moment. I am here on business.”

Bilbo watched him warily, shuffling the packages in his arms. He knew the kind of business that Gandalf was in. The kind that he got others into. Every now and then he would recruit particularly adventurous hobbits into his land-trekking and sea-faring adventures. And sometimes, those hobbits didn’t come back. “What kind of business?” He asked warily, he could feel his fingers beginning to twitch but refused to acknowledge it.

“I don’t think you need to ask that Bilbo, you of all hobbits.” Gandalf said, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Gandalf,” Bilbo warned.

“I would like you to join me in an adventure.”

“What kind of adventure?” Bilbo bit his tongue to keep from calling the wizard audacious, but his frown seemed to have spoken for him. He cut in before Gandalf could, holding a finger up to further silence the wizard. “No, no. I don’t care. I don’t want this. I can’t imagine what would make you think I do.”

“You’ve just asked me yourself. Twice, in fact.”

Bilbo shrugged, his features twisting into a wince, “Mm, I don’t think I did.”

Gandalf sighed, his shoulders sagged and without actually moving he seemed to have shrunk down to be level with Bilbo. Something in the heaviness of his gaze and his weary eyes made Bilbo pity him. _Almost,_ Bilbo chided himself, _almost._ He was still a wizard and wizards could do tricky things to get what they wanted. “I find myself in need of a navigator-,”

“No.” Bilbo said firmly, “No, no, I’m not a navigator. I’ve never, I-I don’t… No.” He remembered all too clearly his mother’s adventures at the hand of a wizard.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf chided.

“Don’t think I’ve forgotten my mother, Gandalf, and don’t think I’ve forgotten that you’re the one who sent her on those adventures!”

“Perhaps we should discuss this over tea.”

“ _You_ sent her off on another one of your stupid adventures, and now she’s-,” Bilbo’s mouth seized around the last words, restraining the truth he didn’t want to admit. He cleared his throat and tried again. “Now she’s gone.”

“Come now, stop digging your heels into the ground, this is not something that we can solve here.” Gandalf said pointedly, Bilbo looked around and found several hobbits most definitely eavesdropping. A wizard would be enough to fuel the gossip of Hobbiton, but the respectable Master Baggins of Bag End having a row with the great Gandalf the Grey? Tongues would wag and ears would burn all over the Shire. “Will we be having tea?”

Bilbo sighed, resigned to the constraints of his manners. “Of course, I’m sorry, yes. Yes, I’d be happy to receive you whenever-,”

“We’ll be there tonight.” Gandalf nodded to himself, and Bilbo thought for sure the wizard was riling him up for his own amusement.

Bilbo said stubbornly and fought to keep his smile in place, “I think we should talk about this first.”

“I shall inform the others.”

“Wait, inform the who? What? Gandalf what are you talking about? Inform who?”

Gandalf waved him off, “Don’t worry, you’ll meet them soon enough. Lovely, agreeable bunch.”

“A bunch?”

“Well, no. More of a crew.”

“A _crew_?”

“But yet, quite like a company.”

“A _company_?” Bilbo exclaimed, “I don’t want to-Gandalf! I am _not_ going on _any_ adventures here, today, thank you! No, no, no! I am _not_ your navigator! I don’t want any thing of the… of the sort.”

But Gandalf had already walked away, down to the docks, waving his hand back to shrug off Bilbo’s complaints.

With a resigned huff Bilbo set back his shoulders and started back up the hill to Bag End. As he passed, he glanced at the hobbits who no doubt would begin their gossip as soon as he left. He could only be thankful that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins wasn’t present, although she’d no doubt charge right up to Bag End as soon as she’d heard that Bilbo was arguing with one of the most powerful beings in all of Middle-Ocean and demand to know the story first-hand.

Lobelia was a handful on a good day, but oh, if that thought didn’t already make him weary. It was almost enough to make him want to go on this adventure, if only to escape her.

But it just wasn’t done. Well, hobbits did, but not respectable hobbits who were the masters of Bag End. Hobbits didn’t go adventuring into the blue. Hobbits certainly didn’t go sailing! They didn’t like water and they couldn’t swim and drowned easily and, and… His father certainly never went sailing away with wizards.

 _But he was a navigator,_ Bilbo reminded himself, _he did go sailing_. And he’d taught Bilbo all from his trade, too, but that didn’t make Bilbo a navigator. He had the skills to navigate in theory, which gave him work in sailing preparation with the East India Trading Company, but he had no practical experience. He couldn’t remember the last time he went to sea.

No, but he remembered the trip. It was just a day trip to Frogmorton with his parents. He remembered feeling nervous, but there was something in the steady rocking of the ship and the cool misty breeze that made him feel safe. His father let him steer and his mother held his hand. He stopped that memory before it progressed any further, nausea climbing up his throat with the thought of his mother at sea.

He wouldn’t go. He couldn’t! Not on any kind of journey with excitement and thrills and… no. He was Bilbo Baggins of Bag End and he was perfectly content with his life. He had a comfortable routine and his garden and his books, and that wasn’t something to be taken for granted. Some people didn’t even have homes so he felt he should appreciate his own, given how lovely it was. After all, his father had worked so very hard to make the most beautiful hobbit hole in all of the Shire. Bag End was a wedding present for his mother, we couldn’t leave it! Both his parents had strived to give him all they could, and they had. It’s not like he wanted to go anywhere anyway… he was happy.

A shadow passed over him as he trudged onwards, feet scuffing the dirt. Bilbo looked up a watched a seagull float on the sea breeze before flapping over the hill. And he had an urge, one that he couldn’t quite describe, but made him feel like following, if only to see where the bird would land. If only to see all of the land the seagull cast its shadow over.

The feeling from that morning clawed at his chest and gnawed at the corner of his thoughts.

Bilbo found he’d been muttering to himself all the way back home, and now he stopped at the top of the hill, looking out at the sea from the sheer drop of the cliff face whereupon Bag End rested. “What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

 

 

 

Were this to continue as any normal day, Bilbo would’ve gone home and read by his windows in the parlour or in his study, then he’d spend the afternoon making maps for the East India Trading Company as they requested, in different scales and formats. He would plot journeys and trade routes and even teach basic navigational tricks to those who asked for them. Apparently, the navy found him invaluable. So much so, that despite not holding any kind of ranking or place of authority, they’d previously asked him to navigate professionally. Several times. The naval officer constantly at Bilbo’s door had a hard time believing it when he said that he wasn’t a navigator. It hadn’t kept them away, either, which was frustrating.

So as there came a banging upon Bilbo’s round door that evening, he couldn’t help but feel a little disgruntled. “No, _no_ ,” Bilbo groaned, just setting his hot dinner plate upon his kitchen table and taking his teakettle off the boil. He had no problem drawing up their charts, but the navy couldn’t take no for an answer. This was the third time _this week_ they’d come to him and if had to send them away another time, he would start yelling.

As he stamped towards the door he stilled, remembering his encounter with Gandalf. He said he’d be around for tea, and although it was still light outside, it was just as likely to be the wizard. Not that Bilbo had forgotten Gandalf, truth be told, he couldn’t shake the meeting from his mind. His nerves had been riling all day and he couldn’t focus on his books.

Wholeheartedly he hoped that Gandalf had forgotten him and all his silly talk of adventures. _Surely,_ he couldn’t imagine that Bilbo would want to go anywhere with him. And while a part of him fought with a small voice to be polite, the voice was drowned by a sudden burst of anger, boiling like a teakettle.

He didn’t want to go on an adventure, who was he kidding? Bilbo was used to a certain kind of lifestyle with the ground planted firmly beneath his feet. With neighbours and friends and, and, his house. He couldn’t leave his hobbit hole. Imagine what his parents would say! No, he was simply not going on this adventure! But Bilbo knew the wizard wouldn’t take his answer so easily. With that in mind, he grabbed the doorknob.

“Go away and _bother_ _somebody else!_ ” He yelled, yanking it open. “I’m _not_ your navi-oh!” Bilbo looked up almost swallowed his tongue.

Standing at his door was neither the commander or chief naval officer that Bilbo had spoken to yesterday, nor the wizard he’d spoken to this morning, but a burly dwarf, tattoos over his scalp and a presence that filled the doorway. The dwarf turned and he scowled at Bilbo, his thick eyebrows pulling together.

Bilbo fought to contain himself. “Good evening,” He cleared his throat, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t expecting-,”

“Dwalin,” the dwarf said with a low bow, “at your service,” and stepped inside, pushing Bilbo backwards and hanging his cloak on the nearest peg as if he’d already been invited.

Bilbo could do little but stare at Dwalin as he was pushed aside and the stranger clumped his heavy boots into the parlour.

“B-uh, Bilbo Baggins at yours!” Bilbo cried, cursing himself for almost forgetting his manners. The dwarf was more than a slight shock to him, but his mother would’ve been appalled to find that Bilbo hadn’t been hospitable to a guest, no matter how unexpected.

Then again, unexpected was an understatement. The dwarf – Dwalin – was battered and beaten, as if thrown onto the rocks by waves. He had dirt in the creases of his hands and the folds of his clothes, his axes – he was carrying _weapons_ – were dulled with use but had freshly sharpened edges, but he looked around Bilbo’s home with a critical gaze, lifting a map to Buckland that Bilbo was working on with such carelessness that Bilbo couldn’t help but feel a little flustered.

“Uh I’m, I’m sorry but I don’t quite know who you… well, what you’re, what exactly it is you’re doing here–,”

Dwalin turned and watched Bilbo fidget under his heavy gaze. Bilbo stood stunned for a brief moment before his Baggins blood slapped him. “Oh-oh, I was just about to take tea. Pray, come and have some with me.” Dwalin continued to watch him. “Uh, yes. Right this way,” Bilbo said, and led past the dwarf and into his kitchen.

Bilbo had hardly opened his mouth to ask the dwarf what he would like to dine upon or drink before a new knock thumped harshly against his door. He glanced at Dwalin and the dwarf merely raised an eyebrow, jerking his head towards the door.

“So sorry, please excuse me,” Bilbo stuttered. A fist pounded against his door again, noise echoing through the entrance chamber. He only had a moment to feel flustered about the fresh coat of paint on his door being scrubbed by angry fists – _it was only painted a week ago!_ He pulled the door back, thinking surely it was Gandalf this time, only to come face to face with yet another dwarf.

This dwarf was shorter than the last, with a great red cloak wrapped around his shoulders. His beard was white and rolled down his front, and his eyes were smiling and kind. “I see my brother has arrived,” the dwarf said fondly, eyeing the cloak hanging in his entrance hall.  “And the others shouldn’t be too far behind me.” Bilbo stuttered out a breathy laugh at ‘ _the others’._

He glanced behind the dwarf and couldn’t see any figures pushing through his gate, but that didn’t mean that they were very far behind. How many had Gandalf said there were? A crew? No, a _company._ Bilbo’s hands scrunched by his sides and he fought to keep his nose from doing the same. His effort resulted in a squinting glare at his front gate, only drawn back when the dwarf politely cleared his throat.

“Allow me to introduce myself: I am Balin, son of Fundin, at your service.”

“Terribly sorry, forgive me. Bilbo Baggins, at yours,” Bilbo said, stepping aside to allow Balin to come into the room.

Balin nodded, already removing his cloak and giving Bilbo a firm pa on the back. “No need, laddie.”

Bilbo went to follow Balin, turning, only to hear the scraping of wood against rock as his gate opened again, heralding another dwarf. With a quiet groan he looked out and found two dwarves coming forward. And with a slightly louder groan he realised that he didn’t know exactly how many dwarves constituted a company. He needed to find Gandalf.

“More!” Bilbo yelped. The two dwarves at his gate looked up at him, smiling in turn. One of them was blonde and covered in knives, his expression respectful and polite, in a way that suggested he was used to smiling on command. The other was dark haired and had a bow slung over his shoulder, his smile was bright and unadulterated; the dwarf was excited and a big ball of energy that Bilbo didn’t feel he had the patience for at this particular moment.

“Oh goodness, please go inside and help yourselves, I shan’t be but a moment.” Bilbo said, flustering, and he could feel his hands begin to shake again.

“Fíli-,” The blonde dwarf began.

“And Kíli, at your service!” The dark haired dwarf exclaimed happily, “You must be Mr Boggins.”

“Yes!” Bilbo cried, pushing his way past the dwarves and slipping out of the gate, and then he stopped, “Well, sort of. Look, is Gandalf with you by any chance?”

“The wizard?” One of the dwarves asked – _Fíli, uh, Kíli. Uh… oh dear._

“He’s down with the others. Don’t worry, he’ll be along soon.”

Bilbo made a noncommittal noise and raced down the hill from Bag End. He could already see various others coming up the way and he felt anxiety clawing up at his chest. This was not how his day was meant to go! He didn’t ask for any of this. He passed two more dwarves, one with bright orange hair and another with an ear trumpet. He gave them harried greetings, telling them to eat and drink what they please, also, have you seen a wizard? Oh yes, yes, he’s just coming up now. Shouldn’t be long.

A company was _much_ bigger than he anticipated. Already Bilbo had seen, what? Six dwarves? Dwalin and Balin and Oin and Fíli and… Oh dear. Plus himself and Gandalf that would have eight. Eight was surely more than enough for a crew – a company too. But he hadn’t anticipated this. He hadn’t asked for any of this. He didn’t want an adventure, he didn’t want to go sailing, and he certainly didn’t want his pantries to be ransacked by hungry, dirty dwarves.

The thought of all of his food – the scones and chicken and pickles and the cakes he’d baked just today for his after-supper morsel! – was what stuck most vividly in his mind when he ran into more dwarves. This time there were three more! Ori, Nori and… definitely another rhyming name. That much Bilbo remembered. In his haste he didn’t bother with his introductions, simply begging them up the hill and asking for Gandalf. The three dwarves, , fussed about each other before agreeing that ‘Indeed, Gandalf shouldn’t be far behind them.’ Before running further down the hill, Bilbo had found that the dwarves were brothers, despite looking nothing quite like each other. One with white hair and intricate braids, mothering over a younger dwarf with a bowl cut, who was subtle trying to get away without clearly making to disappoint his older brother. The third brother, the one with hair shaped like a starfish, pulled the youngest brother up the hill, not so subtly avoiding disappointing the mothering dwarf.

Bilbo huffed: he’d really have to learn all of their names later. It simply wouldn’t do for a host who didn’t know who he was entertaining. Unwelcome as they may be, Bilbo was not a bad host.

His feet pounded heavily against the stone track and he felt his blood rush in his ears. What on earth did Gandalf think he was doing inviting all of these dwarves to his home! How did Gandalf know that he’d have the room or the food to be an adequate host! Surely he could’ve asked first or even introduced him to the dwarves.

Bilbo didn’t have the breath to be annoyed as yet another three dwarves came swimming into his vision. He almost ran straight into them, and would’ve if he hadn’t been caught by a dwarf with a lopsided hat and a lopsided grin.

“Whoa, whoa, slow down there, you’ll run us right off the track.”

Bilbo took a deep breath and stood back, hand resting on the Gamgee’s fence for what little support it had to offer. He nodded his thanks to the dwarf and sucked in another deep breath before speaking. “You haven’t seen Gandalf by any chance? I’m assuming you’re part of the…” Bilbo’s hand twitched as he fought against the words. “Well, the company.”

“Oh, aye,” The same dwarf replied, sticking out his hand, “I’m Bofur, this is my brother Bombur and my cousin Bifur,” Bilbo have a short nod to the dwarves respectively and turned back to Bofur almost impatiently. “Gandalf should be right behind us. Are you alright?”

“What? Oh yes, yes. Please do go up. It’s the house at the very top. I shouldn’t be too long, I just have to speak to this wizard.”

Bilbo started back down the path again, praying to Yavanna that there weren’t _more_ dwarves. If there were, he felt he might explode, and then who would host? It might serve Gandalf right, he thought. Even if he just had a breakdown, that might be enough for the meddling wizard to leave him and his pantries alone!

Remembering his pantries, Bilbo turned his head and yelled up at the dwarves, “Not the jam please, oh do be careful!” Before he bumped into Gandalf again. Bilbo quickly stepped back and held up a single, shaking finger pointing at the wizard, “Gandalf, what the _hell_ is going on? Why are there dwarves in my dining room? What have you done?”

“Why Bilbo, come now, it’s not nearly as terrible as it seems. These dwarves are quite a merry gathering, once you get used to them.” Gandalf put a hand on his shoulder that was warm and reassuring, and Bilbo felt himself relax, much to his own displeasure. He was angry at Gandalf. He _wanted_ to be angry at Gandalf.

“I don’t _want_ to get used to them! You can’t just invite people into my house! _My_ house! They’ve pillaged the pantry. I don’t want to go anywhere with these dwarves! I don’t want to go on any adventures!”

“Now, now, Bilbo, who said anything about adventures? What you need is a good cup of tea, yes, that’s it.” Gandalf gently pushed Bilbo back up the hill, walking by his side and muttering reassurances that Bilbo found himself more than happy to listen to. His anger was slowly fading, settling back to a simmer. “You don’t have to decide now, we have all tonight and you can make a decision in the morning if you like.”

Bilbo let himself be pushed all the way back to his hobbit hole, through the front door and down the hall. “You never said a thing about dwarves, Gandalf. While I’ll admit that these dwarves are nice enough they were certainly unexpected.”

“My dear fellow,” said Gandalf with a chuckle, “It could be much worse. They could be orcs.”

“Indeed,” Bilbo said, feeling fatigue beginning to scratch at the corners of his mind. “They could be orcs or goblins or _pirates_.”

Gandalf replied at first with only a pat on his shoulder, “Mm, I suppose that they could be goblins, yes. That would be worse.”

Mildly confused but altogether quite nonplussed, Bilbo was ushered by Gandalf into the dining room where the dwarves sat around eating and yelling and being altogether too rowdy for Bilbo’s liking. He had to admit though, they weren’t all bad, and at least _some_ of them were eating with cutlery.

He went around the table, trying to match up the faces with the names he’d heard, only to get stuck upon the similarities of Oin and Dori; the relationship of Bifur, Bofur, and Bombur; and the names of Dori and Nori and… oh dear. This was _not_ the right way to host.

He found that quite a few of the dwarves had weapons. What with Dwalin’s axes and Fíli bow and – _Kíli’s_ bow and Fíli’s knives. There were swords and daggers and small throwing axes, there were knuckle-dusters and curved blades and Bilbo thought he saw a pistol or two. All in all, they all looked quite unruly. Bilbo’s mind slowly ticked over.

“But you’re…” Bilbo looked at the dwarves squashed into the spaces of his dining room until there was hardly enough room to breathe. They were all rougher than he’d realised at first glance. They were all covered in dirt and sweat and grime, some had tattoos up their arms and one had tattoos across his scalp. One particularly unnerving dwarf had a wild look in his eyes only made worse by the axe stuck inside of his head! Bilbo’s stomach sunk. “Pirates. You’re pirates.”

“Aye, well,” Dwalin said gruffly, “It looks like you’re as dim as you seem.”

It took a heavy knocking on his door a few moments later, and a expectant silence falling upon the room, before Bilbo realised that he didn’t feel anxious anymore. His dull feelings from this morning had vanished as he’d rushed around, and he couldn’t tell whether that was a pleasant feeling or made him feel worse. Bilbo broiled slightly at the thought of another dwarf at his door, but one look at Gandalf and he knew it wasn’t quite the case.

“He’s here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAAND the plot thickens. We're getting there! Next chapter will host Thorin and to appease Annie he'll be as much of a rugged sea-captain as I can make him.
> 
> Thank you for reading!
> 
> \- Strider.


	3. Recruiting a Navigator

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He could give the navigator a chance. Just a chance, mind. Their quest was no small undertaking, and for a hobbit of the Shire to leave such a place, well, perhaps the creature was brave.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My beta is still a runaway, so this chapter goes unbetaed for the moment, just so you know!

Truth be told, Thorin didn’t know what to expect upon his arrival to Hobbiton.

Despite the late hour, the town was still alive. Hobbits bustled. Not busily, but aimlessly – almost drunkenly. The small creatures were sedate in their security, lazy smiles upon their faces and stupor in their steps. A nearby tavern exploded with cheers and laughter and song; hanging torches lit a large, globe of a tree; and fireflies rested near clusters of flowers. The hobbits danced, they drank, and Thorin often saw attempts at the two tasks tried simultaneously.

For such a prestigious trading port during the day, Hobbiton melted away with the night to reveal the true, light-hearted nature of the hobbits.

What could a hobbit have to offer a bunch of ‘mercenary pirates’? The hobbits, particularly those of the Shire, were a soft and petty folk who had no business or desire to leave their dwellings. Of course, there were hobbits in Bree, and hobbit traders weren’t uncommon in Tortuga, either. But a hobbit of the Shire becoming part of his crew? A hobbit pirate? He couldn’t justly see it, and he couldn’t imagine a hobbit navigator being much to show, either.

Dís’ voice scratched at his mind, telling him not to blow it, telling him to be nice. _She_ would’ve been nice. She was always the better communicator. Hell, she could’ve gotten the Pirate Council wrapped around her finger if she’d asked it. Still, his was his quest. And like it or not, this was the navigator that Gandalf had chosen.

Thorin began to climb the rise Gandalf had directed him to, and relished in the feeling of solid earth beneath his feet. Too long had it been since he’d stepped upon solid land. He loved the ocean with all his soul, and was raised to love it as such, but he was a dwarf. The land, the mountains, they were just as much a part of him. If he made a slightly larger stomp upon the land just to savour the feeling, well, no one had to know.

Maybe this hobbit would have some sense. At least, Thorin hoped. Gandalf said he’d pick someone reputable, but how much did he know of the wizard he was trusting? Too long had his people been left homeless. Too long had his sister-sons lived without their culture – one they should have been raised into. They deserved to live as kings, all of his crew did, and all of his people did. He could not risk it all over one man’s choice. Yet… Thorin had no choice himself. He supposed he had to believe in this navigator.

Finally reaching the peak of the cliff face, he turned to the sea and breathed. In, out, in, out, relishing in the brine mist.

He could give the navigator a chance. Just a chance, mind. Their quest was no small undertaking, and for a hobbit of the Shire to leave such a place, well, perhaps the creature was brave. Such a hobbit would, he imagined, be seen as an outcast, leaving less friends, less ties – it’d make it easier to leave in a hurry. Besides, if he was recommended by a wizard, well, what better qualification could there be?

He stopped himself – stopped himself from trying to fabricate some sort of respect for this navigator. He would let this navigator’s skill speak for its self, and if he couldn’t do the job, well…

Thorin turned and knocked on the round, green door of the only smial on the cliff face. He took off his tricorne and breathed deeply again, trying to settle his gut. All that rested upon this meeting was his family’s ship, his homeland, the safety and sanctuary of his people and, oh yes, the Pirate Council’s aid. Nothing too important, then. Oh, how he loathed his dependency.

If worst came to worst he could always find his own navigator. Then again, good navigators were far and few these days. One good navigator could be spread between an entire fleet. And he hated to admit it, but good dwarven navigators were hard to come by. Dwarves had stone-sense aplenty, but sea bearings often brought them up short. Not that it ever stopped Frerin, but Thorin shook the thought from his mind.

If this hobbit really was as good of a navigator as Gandalf claimed he was, then he didn’t want to jeopardise that in any way. Oh Mahal, he’d have to smile for him. It seemed that he was out of options.

Not a moment later, a small, anxious face peered out at him from behind the door. Thorin was frowned at, and then the door opened wide, revealing the hobbit.

He was a small creature with bright eyes and ruffled hair, with a tailored waistcoat and large hairy feet. He had a fussy frown and he fidgeted, and Thorin was reminded of, well, a rabbit.

The hobbit cleared his throat and his hands twitched by his sides. “Good evening,” He said in a small, polite voice, and Thorin felt doomed already.

“Good evening, Mister…”

“Baggins. Bilbo, though.”

“Baggins.”

“Yes.”

“Right.” Thorin muttered. The hobbit watched him carefully, looking him up and down. Thorin could only imagine the spectacle his crew must’ve made on the creature if he was this cautious. “Have my crew arrived?”

“What? Uh, oh, oh, yes! Yes, please do come in, sorry to keep you waiting.”

The hobbit ushered for him to enter, taking his hat, his coat and showing him where to hang his sword. Everything he had was covered in mud or dirt or seawater.

Thorin knew how he looked. All that he’d left Erebor with years ago was stripped from him. None of the grandeur and wealth of his people remained. He’d lost all his regal robes, his belt was melted down to forge a shirt of mail; he was stripped down to a warrior, then a pirate. And now, standing in a cosy little nook of the world, away from all the rest, he couldn’t help but feel angry. Angry and jealous and unfit to stand even in the halls of this stranger.

The hobbit led him to the room holding his crew, and he took note of the maps and charts as he passed through the parlour. He stepped into the dining room and instantly Fíli and Kíli were shouting across the room, yelling their greeting, and he gave them a fond smile. He clasped arms with Dwalin, gave Balin a pat on the shoulder, and gave a nod to the other members of his crew.

He came upon Gandalf at the head of the table and sat in the empty chair next to him. The hobbit, however, stayed standing, hovering in the doorway of the atrium behind him.

Was he nervous? In his own home? He seemed almost… unwilling. And uncomfortable. Was he having second thoughts about their voyage already? The navigator knew what he was joining, and yet still, he looks wary. Or perhaps he didn’t know that they would be dwarves. Perhaps the hobbit judged him just like the men and the elves, even the Pirate King.

But dinner was set in front of him and he stopped his thoughts in their tracks.

 

 

 

Dinner went well. Or, as well as it could with a crew of dwarves in his dining room, but Bilbo liked to think that he rose above that… as well as he could… he didn’t faint, and commended himself highly on that, at least. The dwarves were amicable and he’d almost forgotten that they were anything but houseguests for the night, that is, until Gandalf started speaking. He _knew_ he’d forgotten to tell Gandalf something. Well, remind him. _Assure_ him. Gandalf didn’t appear to want to hear it.

Gandalf spoke to him over the shoulder of Thorin, and turned to speak to the rest of the table as more of the dwarves listened in. He spoke of the adventure they were undertaking, ambling on in his words and captivating in the way only wizards can be, casually mentioning dragons, and gold, and the binding of a creature transformed into a man. He moved on to talk about wars that had taken place in different parts of Middle-Ocean, great histories, great warriors – all-in-all a very thorough answer of all possible questions Bilbo didn’t think to ask. Bilbo thought that if he’d been able to pay attention to what the wizard was saying, then perhaps later he might’ve had a better idea of what they wanted him to do. Regardless, for now, he was lost.

Bilbo fazed out around the time he realised that Gandalf was completely serious. That he _actually thinks_ that he’s coming with them. That, and that Gandalf is absolutely _convinced_ he’s a navigator, and that he’s the navigator that they need. He doesn’t even know why they need a navigator if they’re just trying to find a ship, anyway, but when he tries to ask, Gandalf silences him with ‘that’s besides the point’ and ‘you’ll know when the time comes’.

“I assure you,” Gandalf says, this time to the crew of dwarves. It takes Bilbo a moment to slip into the conversation, finding that he hasn’t been talked to in quite some time. “He is quite well trained in mathematics, nautical astronomy, instruments, charts, drawing – all aspects of seamanship, really. He is more than adequate for the task.”

“Gandalf, please.” Bilbo interrupts, stepping forward. He involuntarily reaches out like he’s grasping for the words. “I never went to school for these things, I have only ever been taught by my father!

“Who was quite well learned in all that I have said.”

Bilbo sighed, fingers twitching. Maybe he should just opt for being really obviously honest. “Yes, well, I’ve never actually _navigated_ a _ship_ , Gandalf.” Even when he was alone, Bilbo’s house had never been as quiet as it was with those words. “I’m not a navigator. I’ve never done it, I’ve never been so in all my life.”

Bilbo was startled to find that it was the kind-eyed dwarf – _Balin_ – who spoke. He sighed deeply and rubbed a hand across his forehead, “I’m afraid I have to agree with Mr Baggins, then. He is hardly a navigator if he can’t navigate.”

Balin knew from Thorin’s desperate trust in the wizard alone how badly they needed this to work. A shared glance with his brother and they were both thinking the same thing.

“Aye,” Dwalin could feel his own meagre respect for their so-called navigator already sinking like a stone in the water, “the sea is no place for folk that can neither fight nor fend for themselves.”

The other dwarves nodded to each other, small mutterings of agreement, fewer of indecision. Fíli and Kíli looked to Thorin but their captain was silent, wound tight, almost livid, so they wordlessly agreed too. Bilbo agreed with them all, even nodded and told Gandalf so. If Gandalf wanted a hobbit to go on a sea-faring adventure then he could try a Stoor hobbit. Certainly not a Baggins of the Shire. Certainly not a Baggins of Bag End.

“Enough, you fools. Enough!” Gandalf said sternly, standing and looming over each of the dwarves huddled around Bilbo’s all-too-small dining room table, “I have said that Bilbo Baggins in a navigator and he is! Trade from his father, and sea legs from his mother.” Bilbo’s eyes flickered to Gandalf as he turned away, avoiding Bilbo’s stunned, flustered babbling. A thought flickered by Bilbo’s mind, telling him Gandalf hadn’t merely sent his mother, but accompanied her on those adventures. He could have. It seemed obvious now, he should have assumed the wizard had. But then… Then where was he on her last?

_How much did Gandalf know about mother? Know about her sea voyages? She hadn’t told a soul and made sure that I kept it that way. Even after-_

“He has the necessary skill and a great deal more to offer than any of you know. Including himself. Without him, I assure you this quest will fail.”

Bilbo made a small whining sound, and it looked like Thorin was slowly relenting. Uncurling, resigned to the idea of Bilbo as his navigator like he had no choice in the matter. Surely a _pirate captain_ could have some iota of a say over his own crew members. Then again, Bilbo wasn’t so sure that he’d cross a wizard, either.

If only Bilbo could settle into the idea, himself. He couldn’t just run off! He wasn’t a pirate, he wasn’t a dwarf, he wasn’t his mother. He wasn’t nearly as adventurous or as brave as her. He was a Baggins. To be a Baggins is to be a navigator, a hobbit with good bearings and sense about them. A Baggins is respectable and homely, a hobbit who undertakes land voyages, yes, but not a sailor. But… he could be, couldn’t he? He was half Took, after all. He was as much his mother’s son as he was his father’s… No. Careless thinking led to acting carelessly. He _couldn’t._ He wouldn’t.

“Gandalf,” Thorin addressed the wizard, speaking for the first time since he’d entered the room and breaking Bilbo out of his reverie. “I would speak with you.” The dwarf stood and left before an answer could be given, and with a weary sigh Gandalf followed.

Bilbo, now alone with the crew once again, felt like he was at his wit’s end. He didn’t want to begin to think of how long the washing up would take. Or where the dwarves would all sleep. Or breakfast, sweet Eru. He needed, at the very least, to catch his breath before anything else happened. What he needed was his pipe.

“Right,” Bilbo announced. “Make yourselves at home, but please excuse me.”

 

 

 

“Gandalf, we don’t have time for tomfoolery. You promised me a navigator. You have given me a grocer of the race who _fears_ _water_. You have clearly missed your mark!” He spat the words, and while they felt right on his tongue, sweet like justice, they felt bitter upon his mind. He saw how the hobbit watched them all. As he ate he felt the hobbit standing over his shoulder, as if anxiously waiting for them to start a riot, destroy and pillage the town. Even pirates could behave when the need arose. Why had he ever trusted Gandalf; he should have known the second he stepped foot upon the Shire’s soil that this was a very bad idea. A hobbit navigator. It was laughable.

Thorin had humility enough to be shamed a moment after he’d said the words, and further shamed when he thought the rest. Because Gandalf would be right, of course he was right. And Thorin cursed him for it.

“You of all people should know that the size and racial expectations of a person do not define nor confine them, Thorin Oakenshield.” Gandalf saw the hesitance in Thorin’s stance and couldn’t help but pause. “Save me from the stubbornness of dwarves,” He muttered, and not for the last time. “You say I’ve missed my mark, then mark my words: without Bilbo Baggins, your quest shall _surely_ fail.”

“Are you certain? Because I need surety.” Thorin grabbed onto his arm as he went to pass. He let go a moment later, remembering that he spoke was a wizard. “I am trying to trust you. This hobbit is more homely than adventurous. Whatever it is you see in him… you have to be sure.”

Something in Gandalf’s eyes softened and quirked amused at the same time. “I have told you before, and I will tell you again, no doubt I have yet to tell you before we meet our journey’s end: there is more to Bilbo Baggins than meets the eye. And I tell you now, your quest should fail without him.”

“You would ask me to put my life – the lives of my people – in the hands of a hobbit?”

“You do not have to trust him, but trust me. You have no other choice.”

Thorin’s eyes flicked away, and he sighed with more resignation than fatigue, although he felt both. “Mahal’s sake, you haven’t even told me why we need a navigator.”

“And everything I do, I do for a reason.” Gandalf stood a little straighter, head just brushing the roof of the smial.

The hobbit would be the death of him. Dís would love this; she’d find it hilarious. For such a ragtag crew of misfit dwarves and outcasts, surely throwing in a not-a-navigator navigating hobbit couldn’t hurt. The odds were always against them, but what was he getting himself into? Mahal, what was he getting this hobbit into? “Fine. What harm can one halfling navigator do?”

Gandalf nodded, satisfied.

“But I cannot guarantee his safety. Nor will I be responsible for his fate.” Thorin didn’t waver in these words. If Gandalf wanted the hobbit to survive then he’d have to do it himself. Thorin already bore the weight of a kingdom, if he were to bear the hobbit too, he had a feeling it would be the straw that broke him.

Gandalf nodded again, this time, more carefully. “Agreed, now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a navigator to recruit.”

_One down, one to go._

 

 

 

Bilbo had just begun to get comfortable on his porch bench when his door opened and he fought to repress a groan. He lowered his pipe to his lap and watched Gandalf slowly saunter down to the bench and sit down, taking out his own pipe. Gandalf didn’t speak for a time, and when Bilbo turned he’d found he was being watched.

He took a few deep draws from his Old Toby then promptly stood and made his way to the gate, looking past the edge of the cliff and down to the docked ships below. “What is it, Gandalf? What do you want?”

“Bilbo, my boy, you know exactly what I want.”

Bilbo huffed. He felt his fingers begin to ache and twitch again so he took another deep draw from his pipe and turned his eyes to the stars. The stars, of course it was the stars. His father had told him, as a young fauntling who would drag his father out at twilight to look for constellations, that the destiny of all people of Middle-Ocean lies in the stars. His mother, on the other hand, would tell him that it isn’t up to the stars to hold our destiny, but up to us. He believed them both. “Gandalf,” Bilbo began with a crackling throat. He fumbled with his pipe and dropped it, but didn’t pick it up. “I haven’t navigated land in a long time, you understand. My mother… I haven’t even been to sea in… you know I can’t.”

“Now, now, Bilbo,”

The hobbit dug his heels into the dirt, his fingers grasping at the fabric of his trousers. Bilbo could feel himself getting worked up again and turned on Gandalf, “Hobbits don’t like the water. Hobbits can’t swim! I could drown! I could get lost! I can’t just go sailing off upon the blue! I am a Baggins of Bag End, and… and I…” Bilbo pulled weakly at the roots of his hair, “I _can’t_.”

Bilbo was still or so long that by the time he realised neither of them had spoken, he thought Gandalf had left, but sure enough, the wizard was looking at him again with the mischievous, fond glint in his eye that reminded Bilbo of his mother, “You are also a Took.”

And five words were all it took for Bilbo to agree, not that he would admit it then or for quite some time after. “I’m afraid, Gandalf,”

“Of course you’re afraid. You’d be a fool not to be afraid. But you’d be wise to remember that there can be no courage without fear.” Bilbo still didn’t look pleased, and Gandalf smiled fondly at the homely little hobbit. “It is not required that we know all of the details about every stretch of the river. Indeed, were we to know, it would not be an adventure, and I wonder I there would be much point in the journey. Half the fun of an adventure is the unknown.”

“And what’s the other half?”

“The journey.”

Bilbo felt tears prick the corners of his eyes. His mother said that. Of course she did, she probably heard Gandalf say it, or vice versa. _Of all things to become overwhelmed at this evening. Daft old hobbit._ Honestly, he was a wreck. For all the excuses he could possibly come up with, not one of them sounded good enough to his own ears. He just… he couldn’t. It was as simple as that.

“Gandalf, _please_ , I really must ask. Did you send my mother on those journeys or did you accompany her?” Bilbo pleaded, weary. Confusion seemed to be wearing down everyone down tonight. He stepped in front of the bench, digging his heels into the ground and stopping Gandalf from moving an inch. While the wizard sat they were almost eye-to-eye.

Gandalf studied Bilbo, looking down his nose, and it wasn’t a moment before Bilbo began to feel uncomfortable under his assessing gaze.

“I’m sorry, Gandalf, but…” Gandalf’s mouth quirked to the side and Bilbo felt suddenly more like he was being valued rather than judged. “I do need to know.”

After a moment Gandalf nodded and chuckled and began speaking to himself, gently pushing Bilbo out of the way, “You know, many a races far and wide, including myself, will tell you of the stubbornness of dwarves. Without cease, in fact, but I believe that dwarves are bested in their stubbornness by the hobbits. You, Master Baggins, will do just fine.”

Bilbo sighed as Gandalf simply walked around him and started up to the smial door. Bilbo tried to stop him again, not allowing his pleas to be shoved aside. “Gandalf-,”

The wizard stopped on the top step. “My dear fellow, where do you think your mother began with her adventures, hmm? Why, I brought her on her first sea voyage to see the elven traders of Rivendell and into Mirkwater! You cannot truly believe that she started all of her own accord.”

“You _did_ take her! Wait… Elves…?” Bilbo tried to swallow his excitement before it burst forward and he couldn’t get it back, “My mother saw elves?”

“Saw elves? Why, Bilbo, she met them. Belladonna became friends with them, she was even considered elf friend, last I’d heard, and I daresay that we should find some elves on our voyage too.”

Bilbo’s toes began to rub into the dirt, his hands curled into fists by his side and he couldn’t keep still. He was buzzing with excitement that he was sure Gandalf could see. His resolve was… somewhere. Bilbo cleared his throat and spoke as carefully as he could muster, “You would meet elves?”

“Oh undoubtedly, undoubtedly.”

“And all you need is a navigator? Nothing else?”

“Yes, yes,”

“And then I can come home again? I mean straight home, Gandalf, no messing about, nothing like that, no trying to rope me into another adventure. Just… there and back again, yes?”

Gandalf had a glint in his eye, a mischief that Bilbo didn’t like in the slightest, “If that is what you wish.”

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek, muttering to himself. “Now that doesn’t sound so terrible, does it?”

Bilbo scratched his brow and frowned, as he already knew what he’d do, come morning. He’d think it over a million more times, but he still knew what he’d do.

He bid Gandalf goodnight, went inside, and hardly slept at all.

 

 

In the morning he woke, still bleary, but the sun was in his eyes. It took him a moment of staring through the open window – _which he swore he’d closed, he’d most definitely closed it_ – before he remembered Gandalf, and the dwarves, and the pirate quest.

He was up and dressed before he could think and hurried through the house looking for any sign – anything at all – of the dwarves.  They couldn’t have gone already, surely. Dread sat heavy in his stomach – they couldn’t have, they couldn’t have. He wrenched open his front door, bounding to the gate, almost leaping over it. Or, he would have, if he hadn’t heard someone clearing their throat.

“What are you looking for, Bilbo Baggins?” Gandalf called from the bench next to Bilbo’s door. Bilbo spun to find the wizard smoking his pipe, lounging back without a care. Gandalf raised an eyebrow at him and blew a particularly impressive smoke ship. Bilbo straightened his waistcoat and cleared his throat, pretending he wasn’t looking for the ship. “The company hasn’t left yet. Although…” Gandalf trailed off, eyes staring into the sky, “It won’t be long before they do.”

Bilbo sighed. Now that he knew he hadn’t missed them, he hesitated again. Surely he couldn’t just run off. He wanted to, oh how he _wanted_ to, and he could see the elves. But no, hobbits didn’t just do these things, did they _?_ “Gandalf, I know what you said, but I-,”

“No time for that.”

“But-,”

“No time for that either!” Bilbo simmered as Gandalf continued talking, obviously not going to let Bilbo slip in a syllable. “Did I not just watch you dart out of this door? So much worry in your walk you almost knocked over your fence! You are just as eager as your mother was, dare I say more so. The gulls cried for her, my dear fellow, and by rights, she listened! The white gulls cry for very few.” Gandalf sat back, taking up his pipe again against the smug smile tearing across his lips. “So when they cry for you, you’d better go and catch them.”

Bilbo took a long contemplative beat, staring at his toes and the dirt beneath them before nodding to himself, “Right then,” He drew in a deep breath, hearing his mother in his mind, taunting him, and daring him. “Right.” Bilbo said with some finality. He nodded at Gandalf, and then raced into his hobbit hole, collecting things as he went.

 

 

He couldn’t remember ever having run so fast in his life. As a fauntling he’d run through the forests, thinking that if he’d run fast enough he could catch those long-legged elves that were surely just past the next tree, but that didn’t compare. Now he was running after dwarves.

As a hobbit just shy of his coming of age, he’d run along the docks, almost leaping into his mother’s arms after her long voyages away at sea. Now her fading red travelling coat flapped around his body with the wind.

Last night he’d run down this very hill, blood rushing and breathless, wanting to chase all of these dwarves away. Now he prayed to Eru that they’d not yet left.

Hamfast Gamgee stood at the bottom of the hill, looking at him with a look of deep concern, usually reserved for dying rosebushes, but as Bilbo shoved his keys into the gardener’s hands, Hamfast chuckled. He told Bilbo he’d take care of Bag End and smiled fondly. It reached his eyes, too.

This morning Bilbo ran, breathless for a different reason, excitement lighting him up – he felt like he couldn’t run fast enough. He passed the Green Dragon and the dock, and that was it! The ship wasn’t flying any colours, there was no distinction for a pirate ship – which was, perhaps, for the better – but he could see Bofur’s hat and there was no mistaking that those were his dwarves.

Bilbo laughed, loud and bright, clearly feeling how ridiculous he sounded, at least to himself. _His_ dwarves? When had he felt such a fond feeling of ownership for _dwarven pirates_?

Bilbo reached the end of the dock and leapt. He could feel himself falling through the air, and for a moment he had almost wished that he would hit the water.

But he landed on the deck, flat on his stomach with a great, big _thud_. His bag hit the deck a second later with a clatter and rolled, making Bilbo flinch. Hopefully all of his equipment had made it too.

Bilbo pushed himself up onto his elbows and found himself looking at a pair of steel capped dwarven boots – Thorin’s boots.

“Master Baggins,” a heavy, dwarven baritone belonging to the heavy, dwarven boots addressed him, “Welcome aboard The Deathless.”

Bilbo flopped back against the deck, groaning, winded. He’d forgotten his handkerchief.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My pirates are so soft, they need to, like, kill a man or something. ANYWAY, that was the chapter where Gandalf needs to tell people things 54 times before they start to get it.
> 
> Have half a chapter of Thorin overthinking everything! Oh man, I think it's hilarious. I feel write I'm writing Thorin perhaps too angstily, though... he'll get better, he will. He'll stop moping when he has something to do.  
> Also, it's movie canon that Thorin melted down his belt and had it forged into a shirt of mail. So he literally gave up his heirlooms and heritage to fight. Just in case you wanted to hurt that little bit more.
> 
> Oh-so tempted to use the word hobbitian...
> 
> And I'm sorry, I should edit so much more, but there's something almost therapeutic about just writing then posting. Plus this chapter has taken quite a while (sorry!), but next chapter, DEFINITELY. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, it has been way too long! BoFA happened and then there's been lots of family stuff since then. Not that that's an excuse, but I'm back now! :)
> 
> Let's kick start this! Thank you for reading :)


	4. INTERLUDE

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was nothing inviting in the silence, because when the waves came they beckoned, an when the waves beckoned the gulls cried and the sea mist flew and the air was frosty and fresh.

From his smial, there was a near constant sound of crashing waves, staying like a solid rush of sibilance. The ocean would throw itself upon the shore, upon the pier, upon the rocks; it wore itself into the land until the noise had become part of the scenery.

The Shire never felt quite whole on the quiet nights when the water lightly lapped at the land, beseeching at the rock, rather than striking up and claiming. Those nights were few and far between, but when they came, Bilbo would sit on his bench in the garden, listening and waiting for the ocean to return. There was nothing inviting in the silence, because when the waves came they beckoned, an when the waves beckoned the gulls cried and the sea mist flew and the air was frosty and fresh.

He felt lost without the invitation, like he’d missed a blazing golden chance. Of course, he never thought he’d take up the opportunity, and his thoughts were proved every time the waves returned, but he felt a little more lost without the nudge. The roaring invitation of the sea gave him hope that one day he may be brave enough to sail once again.

Once or twice before he’d decided to go. To try. Now nearing six years ago, he packed a bag and told himself he was going away on a trip. Just a week away to Frogmorton, but away he would go. Bilbo set off after breakfast, mid-morning, when the sun was shining and the sea was roaring. He had his mother’s red travelling coat, his pack was stuffed to the brim, the hair on his feet was brushed and curly, and nothing could stop him.

He set off down the hill, relishing in the whispered welcomes of the waves, but by the time he reached the bottom the whispers were shouts and the welcomes were clawing hands that would try to drown him.

Disgruntled and frustrated, he set of for the forest instead and spent the day lobbing rocks into the Westfarthing ponds and hitting trees with big sticks, trying to beat off the deep disappointment his adventure had become. Then he returned home late after dusk, shut himself inside, and didn’t open his windows for three weeks.

The second time he tried, he didn’t make it past his own gate before he turned around and went straight back inside. He’d watched waves curling and ripping, sinking and drowning each other; watched the waves get lost beneath others, imagined the same happening to his own small body, experienced a hand curling bout of anxiety, and decided that perhaps it would be for the best if he stopped trying. He left his windows open, and he listened, but he would no longer try to meet the sea.

That was three months ago. Now, he met the ocean. He met the ocean as an anxious hobbit. He rode the ocean as the uncertain navigator of a pirate ship. He conquered the ocean as the son of his parents. The navigator and the adventurer.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey'all! So I've got some family stuff going on at the moment, that's why this is only an interlude and a super short one at that. I'll get back to it in a bit, but for now, thanks for reading :)
> 
> \- Strider.


	5. Aboard The Deathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this took SO DAMN LONG. But look! lots of character introductions, a sword fight, and a new friend to keep Bilbo's anxiety under-wraps. Enjoy!

Bilbo’s first day upon The Deathless shot him through with an excitement that left any anxiety he may have felt immovably null. Dwarves rushed around the deck, bellowing at each other, throwing things, pulling ropes – _was that a pair in combat?_ The view from the other side of Thorin’s feet was somewhat limited, but the footfall of a score of dwarves was felt through his stomach and he laughed. Why had he ever thought this to be a bad idea?

Bilbo stood and brushed off the red coat, trying to ignore Thorin’s assessing gaze. Bilbo nodded in greeting. “Thorin.”

Thorin raised an eyebrow. “Captain,” he corrected.

“ _Captain_ Thorin,” Bilbo said with a slight mocking bow of his head. Bilbo knew he shouldn’t tease the captain, of all people. He could be thrown back on the dock in a moment, but he felt giddy and light and invincible, and relished in the reaction he got.

Thorin watched him for a moment longer then called out over his shoulder. “Bofur.”

Behind him the dwarf with the lopsided, floppy hat appeared with a broad grin on his face. “Cap’n?”

“Bofur, show the navigator where he’ll be staying. Give him what he needs, keep him out of trouble.”

Bofur nodded and stooped to pick up an armful of Bilbo’s maps lying on the deck in different states of being crushed. He slung an arm around Bilbo and led him off to the lower decks before the hobbit could say another word.

 

 

Bilbo set his pack and what instruments he could carry upon his cot. Bofur set the maps he carried down and nodded at Bilbo. “Right. I’ll leave you to unpack. Come up top when you’re ready and I’ll introduce you to the lads.”

“Oh, I can unpack later. Wouldn’t want to keep _his majesty_ waiting, would I?”

Bofur shot him a queer look and Bilbo thought that maybe he’d overstepped a boundary. Barely a beat passed before Bofur’s grin was as bright as ever – perhaps even a little forced – so Bilbo dismissed it.

The ship, Bilbo had to admit, was more pleasant than he expected. How pleasant that was, exactly, is hard to say.

It wasn’t the largest ship Bilbo had ever seen, but it was certainly the biggest he’d ever sailed upon. He could stand on the deck with all the crew and still have room to breathe; he could run from one end of the ship to the other and still have room to spare; he felt like he could lie on the deck and never be trodden on, hide in the lower decks and never be found. It felt like a giant toy and he like a fauntling again.

As a wedding present, his father had built a house for his mother, in an act of Hobbit tradition; and built a boat for her, in an act of love. The house was large and homely, just as a hobbit hole should be; the boat was small and quaint, just big enough for the three of them, once Bilbo came along, and that was just how Belladonna wanted it.

Hobbits generally have large families. When Belladonna had one son, and found she couldn’t have any more, she felt set apart. Thus, she wanted to stay apart and treasure her family, covet Bilbo from judgemental eyes that were really turned upon herself.

When Bilbo asked about brothers and sisters – why he had none and some families had so many they became overrun, and asking if maybe he could borrow one or two from them – his mother told him she didn’t need to hoard children because she had the greatest treasure of them all. She’d kiss him on the nose and call him a bumblebee, ruffle his hair and smile with hope enough to dispel the lonely thoughts of a lonely childhood.

Bilbo took a moment to chide himself over how nostalgic he was feeling as of late, but then, here he was on a voyage at sea, playing navigator for a band of pirates that stuck like brothers. He was a citizen among pirates; a hobbit among dwarves; lonely again. He felt was allowed to be nostalgic, at the very least, if he was to be anything.

The euphoria of freedom, of being apart from the land and his domestic responsibilities, had yet to wear off. Later he’d worry over the state he’d left his house in and who would water his flowers and that he may or my not have left a fire going. But for now, he felt like he could push, like he could play – he felt pretty damn invincible and it was a pretty damn good feeling.

As Bilbo ascended the stairs to the top deck, returning to a thick rabble of noise and strange company, a shadow flew at his face. He fell back and would’ve fallen down the stairs if not for Bofur pushing him back up. There was a loud screech in his ear then the shadow flitted away and became a very large raven. The giant, dark bird found a perch on the captain’s vambrace and crowed softly.

“Ah,” said Bofur. “That’s Roäc, cap’n’s raven. He does that from time to time. He did it to Gandalf before – the wizard can’t stand it.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Bilbo muttered, brushing down his coat and turning away towards the commotion to the bow.

Several dwarves stood in a group, jeering and shouting. Bofur lead Bilbo closer and he heard the scrapings of steel and heavy footfalls. He looked to Bofur but the dwarf just laughed and grinned and pushed him through the crowd. “You already know the lads, but a reintroduction can’t hurt.”

Two dwarves – the brothers, Fíli and Kíli – were fighting. Kíli whipped his sword around his head and Bilbo ducked out of the way, despite the blade never actually coming close to him. He smiled warily to watch the brothers jest.

“Mr Boggins!” Kíli cried out joyfully.

“It’s Baggins, actually-,”

“Careful, brother!” Fíli quipped, “You don’t want to injure our navigator when we’ve barely set sail! Uncle will have your head!”

“Hah! Me? You’re the one that hit my sword away, _towards_ the navigator!”

“It’s a fight, what am I supposed to do? You need more control.” Fíli thrust his sword forward, aiming for Kíli’s gut. Kíli stepped to the side and hit Fíli’s sword away again, this time to the side without their onlookers. “Parry, but control your sword, don’t just fling it!”

“I _know_ how to fight, don’t patronise me.” Kíli swung his sword forward, slicing hard through the air as Fíli stepped back.

“It’s my _job!_ ” Fíli exclaimed, stepping forward again and swiping low. Kíli jumped the blade and caught the quick swipe up with his own. “Everyone knows I’m better with a blade. And as your elder it’s my job to pass along every bit of my knowledge.”

“You’re right there, Fee.” Kíli laughed, leaping out with a series of quick jabs and working Fíli backwards.

“What do you mean?” Fíli caught every hit and parried them all. He flung his blade up and Kíli caught it, his blade crossing horizontally.

“You’re getting old!” Kíli laughed, loud and bright, and it turned infectious. Bilbo felt like he was watching a show.

Fíli’s eyes tightened for a moment, but with no less humour. In a flash he’d pulled a long knife and brought it down, over his head, smashing onto Kíli’s sword. Kíli grunted as he was forced to his knees. His blade was shoved down and split through the deck, cracking the wood.

Kíli jiggled the blade but it wouldn’t come free. He looked up at his brother. “You cheated.”

Fíli shrugged. “Pirate.”

The brothers stared at the sword for a moment before Kíli started giggling again. “Uncle is going to kill us.”

Fíli patted him on the back. “Yeah… just don’t tell him.”

The boys looked over their shoulder guiltily. Bilbo followed to see Thorin and Balin up on the quarterdeck, deep in conversation, a map between them.

“Thorin is your uncle?” Bilbo muttered, more as a thought than a question.

The boys turned to look at him: Fíli with a faint frown and Kíli with a smile and reply. “Oh yeah, mum’s brother. _She_ didn’t want us to come, but we both insisted – we’re _plenty_ old enough for an adventure – and then uncle insisted, and, well, here we are.”

The similarities between the brothers were obvious with their ease and postures and tone of voice, but physically, they weren’t as alike. Kíli – the younger brother – was slightly taller, he had a mess of brown hair and only the beginnings of a beard, he wore lots of tanned and worn leather and although looking like a regular heavy-set dwarf, his features appeared almost human. Fíli – the older – had sun-lightened hair, a beard, and a braided moustache. He seemed warier than his brother, like a responsibility settled in his eyes to see them safe. The sun glinted off knives stuffed in every pocket and crevice of Fíli’s clothing made of fur and buckles. The two were softer looking for pirates, softer toned, too, compared to what Bilbo expected. Looking closer, he saw now the same long nose line and brow – not unlike Thorin’s, although Thorin’s nose was certainly sharper.

“Hmm.” Was his only reply, and Kíli had caught his hand in an almighty handshake.

“It’s great to see you again!”

“You too Fí-,”

“Kíli.”

“Kíli. Right. Yes. Sorry.”

Kíli shrugged. “S’alright! _This_ is Fíli.” He said, gesturing at his brother, standing with his arms crossed.

Fíli held his hand out to shake Bilbo’s, smiling not quite as widely as Kíli, but smiling all the same. “Good to have you aboard, Master Baggins.”

“You can call me Bilbo, really.”

“Bilbo. Alright.”

Bilbo looked over his shoulder as he was slapped on the back, Bofur gestured towards a few more of the crew. He recognised the dwarves as the ones that came to his house the previous night – the sassy thieving dwarf with orange starfish hair was Nori, and he wore bits and pieces of thoroughly-worn clothing, all bound up with a doubled belt. The dwarf with a tumult of red hair and a wild red beard was Gloin. Even when smiling he was perpetually frowning and his clothes, with thick and hardened leather, more armour-like than the others, were stained red in dark patches and splatterings. The dwarf with a (frankly alarming) axe in his head was Bifur. His hair was crazy and his clothes more nomadic. He couldn’t speak Westron, Bofur had told Bilbo, because of his ‘accident’ he was left with a mind that could only understand Khuzdul, relying heavily on the slight an subtle Iglishmek sign language.

Dwarves, Bilbo decided, were tough and complicated. Scarily so.

 

 

 

All it took was the setting sun and his uneasiness came rushing back. Not the hollow feeling he’d felt in his smial, but the kind that sat heavy in his stomach and made his hands begin to shake.

His first night upon The Deathless he didn’t sleep a wink. He sat up on the quarter deck, trying to make light conversation with whoever’s turn it was to stay up, on watch and lookout and – Bilbo didn’t know why a dwarf or two had to skip out on sleep, but then again, not running aground sounded like an excellent plan. First there was Nori, then Bifur, then either Ori or Dori – he still couldn’t match the names. When Kíli took his turn to guard he favoured the crow’s nest, playing with a telescope.

He told the dwarves in turn that he was too excited to sleep, it being his first trip on a pirate ship and all, and although he felt jittery, it wasn’t with excitement. There wasn’t much to talk about with the dwarves, but he didn’t feel there was much else to do beyond converse and watch the stars shine and glimmer, then fade with the morning sunrise.

In the morning he felt exhausted, it being a very long few days where he learnt to secure ropes and fix rigging, tie different fishing knots and learn the songs of the ship, but it didn’t match his exhaustion on the next sunrise when he didn’t sleep two nights in a row. Once, in a slow sail, Thorin called him ‘ _almost_ gluttonous’ and said he was ‘too fond of his comfortable home’, so he worked harder and in turn became more tired then worked slower, but still he didn’t sleep. He didn’t blame Thorin, either. He was sure the captain was stressed with the weight of his quest as it was, then further stressed as it depended on a stranger.

Bofur had planned to use the day showing Bilbo around the different decks and stations. His proper navigational work wasn’t meant to come into play for quite some time, so apparently ‘the captain’ thought he’d ought to be useful somewhere in the meantime, and tomorrow, Thorin wanted him to practise his navigational skills, just to prove he was equal to their task. Once Bofur noticed the dark circles around Bilbo’s eyes and the tremor in his hands he was told to go lie down. Bilbo gave him a smile but he couldn’t make his cheeks stretch in the right way. With his smiles turned grimace, Bilbo left and went straight to his cabin, and for the morning and the better part of the afternoon, he sat at his desk, leafing through star charts, not sleeping a wink.

 

 

 

Bilbo assumed that the great cabin below the quarterdeck was Thorin’s, as the captain – especially a pirate captain – would take the largest quarters for himself. Aboard The Deathless, this wasn’t so.

The great cabin was used as a central hub for all the goings-on of the ship. Balin’s tomes were stored in the shelves and countless maps were rolled up in baskets and holes in the wall, Ori would sit in the cabin most of the day and record the ship log and all of the crew could be seen there at one point or another, contributing to the journey in their own ways. For the reason of being both out of sight and also in a place he could be found easily enough, Bilbo thought it the ideal place to spend his evening before another long, sleepless night. He couldn’t keep this up, he knew that, but sleep didn’t feel possible.

He spent some time looking through the books and pulling maps from their holes. Most were of places he didn’t know or in languages he couldn’t read, so he eventually decided to settle down to the table and work through his own maps.

Great leafs of worn parchment stretched across the table in the centre of the room, showing stretches of land and prominent landmarks. He set down his candle next to the cabin’s already lit one and lined the maps up by their edges, flipping some and fitting them together to make one large map. Some maps were more detailed and some larger than others, but he managed to lie out a map from Hobbiton to the misty mountains.

He vacantly grabbed a pair of dividers from the table, already mapping with his mind the course they should be on. Starting from Hobbiton and estimating their distance crossed daily – _just passed through Buckland last night, should be going through the waters of Bree now_ – he worked the dividers across the map, all the way to the misty mountains, counting fourteen steps as he went. As the dividers stepped to the end of the misty mountains, they fell upon a new map.

The parchment was worn and coming apart – one crease had completely ripped through – the ink was old and fading from fingers brushing over their lines and runes. Bilbo traced the line of a river coming up towards a mountain and squinted at the map in the dimming light.

“The lonely mountain…” he read softly. “Here of old was Thrain… King under the mountain…” Bilbo brushed his fingers over the runes again. “King…” He muttered, and felt like he was intruding. The map was old, and despite its signs of wear, was treasured, he could see that much. Suddenly he felt caught up in something far too big for a hobbit of Hobbiton, something both exciting and restless. Something adventurous.

“It appears that you _are_ a navigator, Master Baggins.”

“Hmm?” Bilbo looked up from his charts, eyes bleary and unfocused. His first candle had blown out, and in his concentration, Bilbo hadn’t thought to relight it, and he had worked in the dim lighting for the better part of his map work. He felt his eyesight would be terrible in the morning. “Oh, Balin. Hello,”

Balin stared at Bilbo for a moment, slowly realising how tired their navigator was – his eyelids drooped over heavy, black rings; his head nodded slowly only to be jerked up again a moment later; his speech slurred on his single syllable words; and his fingers trembled even as they rested flat upon the table.

“It appears that you _have_ navigated a ship before.” Balin said softly, gesturing for Bilbo to sit down and taking a seat himself. He’d have to be blind not to notice the hobbit’s distracted mind, and it was clear he needed to get something off his chest.

“What?” Bilbo frowned – of course he’d navigated a ship before. “Oh. Yes, I have. I mean, I haven’t navigated by myself before, let alone on such a large voyage, as it appears that we’ve undertaken, but I have navigated. Not on a ship. I _have_ but not on a pirate ship, or any ship, really, um… It was my father’s trade, you see, and my mother loved the ocean, so I was practically raised a fish!” Bilbo laughed to himself, smiling fondly at the memory before realising he wasn’t alone. He rambled when he was tired, and now he was overtired, so he could hardly control himself if he wanted to. “Land navigation, too. I deal navigational charts, teach the basics, plan journeys, that sort of thing. I haven’t been to sea in a long time.”

“And why is that?”

“Well, because of my mother.” Bilbo began tenderly, and then stopped. He was hesitant to talk, never having said a word about his family to another. But he decided it might help him sleep, so he talked. “Quite adventurous she was. She always said ‘rather’ a lot, or ‘quite’. You know, ‘oh that’s quite nice’, ‘that’s rather well done’. Lots of almost words where everything was _almost_ perfect. It may have been subconscious, but I thought it was because she found that there was always more to enjoy. Always another adventure to be had.

“She was a Took, you see. Belladonna Took… Tooks are usually quite daring and everyone told my father she was bad news and not the kind of hobbit who held a family, but she proved absolutely _every_ one wrong. Of course, we didn’t tell anyone that she still had her adventures from time to time, but she came back all the happier so my father was happy to let her go.”

Bilbo smiled up at the dwarf who had come to sit with him, who was letting him speak so freely, and what a mess his words were! And Balin could feel Bilbo’s anxiety and hesitance in waves from across the table. The hobbit leaked emotions – is that a hobbitian trait? “One day she went, and while she was gone my father passed away. You may think that she didn’t love him as she should’ve because she kept going away, but I do believe that they were the pillars of each other’s lives. When she did come back a week later she was so torn. I still remember she… she didn’t know how to do anything anymore. My mother lost him and she’d lost her anchor. And that’s what he was, my father, our anchor.”

Bilbo glanced up at Balin, looking for any reaction, and he received a small nod, so he went on. “For the next eight years she stayed with me, not even hinting at wanting to leave again. Then, one day, she was awfully excited and in a flurry and before I knew it she ‘d left again. And she didn’t come back, either.” Bilbo found himself spinning the ring on his finger absentmindedly, lost in his thoughts. “And she sent this to me, she gave me this… this ring,” Balin leaned closer and found it was a golden, solid ring with an acorn crest finely moulded upon the middle. “Last I ever heard of her.”

Bilbo sat back and sighed, rubbing his eyes and trying his best to stifle a yawn, “I haven’t been to sea since my mother left, and even now, I’m afraid to be here.”

“The sea is nothing to fear, laddie.” Balin said sympathetically.

“Oho, I beg to differ,”

Balin tried a different approach. “You’re no good to us fatigued as you are.”

“And yet I _can’t_ sleep. I thought I could but,” Bilbo held out his hand for Balin to see, and he shook like the ocean shook their boat beneath them. There had to be a way to keep himself together – more so than he already was – he _had_ to control this. His hands ached and they were beginning to become stiff and numb, but his sleepless nights weren’t the only thing bothering him.

“Anyway, Balin, I-.” Bilbo stopped and cleared his throat. When he spoke he sounded even smaller to himself, like a fauntling again. “Why am I here? I-I know, yes, I’m here to navigate, but how can a navigator find a moving ship? This isn’t making any sense at all.”

“Thorin has… something,” Balin said with a quirk of his eyebrow and a slight nod. “An heirloom, of sorts. It’s… well, I see no point in keeping things hidden from you any longer. Thorin has a compass.”

“Right,” Bilbo said slowly.

Balin nodded, going over the plan himself. If anyone else were to come to him with such a scheme he would refuse them, for fear they’d gone mad. But he swore an allegiance to Thorin, and if he said that it could be done, then Balin believed it could be. No questions asked. “Thorin has a compass. A compass that points to whatever it is the bearer wants most, you see. And what he wants most is to reclaim his homeland, and in order to do that, he needs The Arkenstone, his ship.”

“I thought The Deathless is his ship.”

“Oh it is, be sure, but The Arkenstone is his family’s ship. That’s his _real_ heirloom. To our knowledge, and judging but what the compass currently tells us, The Arkenstone is sailing far in the east, beyond Erebor, where the air is thick with fog and the land rises in sharp peaks. None of us thought it would be a possible venture, Gandalf, on the other hand, decided that it could be done – _if_ we had the right navigator. Indeed, few hobbits have ever seen or sailed upon the sea, and fewer still have ever returned to report it, so I’m told, but I do believe that you, Bilbo Baggins, are our navigator.

Bilbo gave a small smile. “Maybe I’ll be lucky. Maybe I’ll be one of those fewer that return.”

“Yes. I suppose we’ll see, in time.”

Bilbo’s brow creased slightly, smiling no less. “Right.”

Balin laughed. “Don’t trouble yourself, laddie, you’ll be fine. Besides, you’re with our crew now, whether we like you or not. We will see this quest done. If the wizard says so, and Thorin says so, it can be done.”

“Bilbo,” Balin rose and turned to leave, but came back and rested his hand on Bilbo’s shoulder in what he thought to be a comforting manner, “I only know what you’ve told me, but, from what you’ve told me, it appears that you are, in fact, your mother’s son.”

Balin’s heavy footsteps receded out of the cabin and onto the deck, and Bilbo felt cold for the first time. _That’s good_ , Bilbo told himself, _at least you’re feeling something now. You’re better off cold than numb._

He stayed in his seat for a moment, then rose, blew out the remaining candle, and went out onto the dark deck. Most of the crew had gone below, but those who were still awake were by the bow or on the quarterdeck. Bilbo came to the edge of the ship and watched the dark horizon, listening to the waves lapping up the sides of the ship, breathing the salty sea air in as deeply as he could – it was refreshing, it was stirring, it made Bilbo feel homesick but it was anything but home. The sea was calm and steady and reminded him of his father. But the sea could be fierce and wonderful and that reminded him of his mother. These days, Bilbo found himself acting all too much like he remembered his father to be, but he missed his mother even more in this moment than when he did when he realised she wouldn’t be coming home. The cool ocean breeze in that moment felt so much like home that Bilbo could feel his heat ache.

But that isn’t home. Home is good food and a warm hearth. It’s the books and the maps and pipe weed. It was the soft rounded edges of his hobbit hole and warm sunny days. It was exactly what Thorin had called gluttonous. Bilbo’s home and comfort was thought of as gluttonous! Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, Bilbo wondered if he should’ve set a foot outside of his door. For five months he was to be confined to a ship with a party of dwarves who couldn’t stand him. Well, that wasn’t true. Most of the dwarves were kind, a few even treated him as though he was becoming a member of the crew, but Thorin Oakenshield was hesitant and… disapproving. The dwarves of The Deathless weren’t just a crew, but a family. Their loss bonded them like brothers and they were going to fight for their birthright; and the very different thoughts of fighting with these dwarves and belonging to their family gave Bilbo the same discomforting ache.

Bilbo was… well, a hobbit. A hobbit who had only met them all a few days ago. He couldn’t be part of this family. This wasn’t home. This couldn’t be home for Bilbo. What had Balin said? _‘You’re with our crew now, whether we like you or not’_ – that didn’t sound very promising.

Bilbo straightened his back and rubbed his eyes as Fìli and Kìli came down from the quarterdeck. Kìli called out to him as they went to the gallery,  “Goodnight, Master Boggins!”

“ _Baggins_ , Kìli.” Thorin called fondly after the young dwarf. Thorin turned to Bilbo from the quarterdeck. The captain seemed more at ease now than during the day, daresay even approachable.

Bilbo nodded in acknowledgement, “Thorin- _Captain_ Thorin.”

“I trust you’ll get some sleep too.” Thorin said, tone unchanged like he never heard Bilbo’s slip. "We have enough crew awake tonight.”

Bilbo nodded numbly, feet already carrying him to the stairs, “Yes, I think I will.”

The dwarves in the gallery snored so loudly that Bilbo found his private room to be his greatest blessing. He passed Fìli and Kìli and they were already asleep, their limbs hanging over the side of their hammocks.

How can the dwarves seem to be so at ease with the sea? Everyone else looked like there was no place that they’d rather be, that _this ship_ was their home. And Thorin may be tense and irritating but even Bilbo could see how he feared the sea, yes, but how he loved her too. And with Fìli and Kìli – who were his nephews, as Bilbo found out – right beside him, with Balin and Dwalin, Oin and Gloin, the Ri brothers and the carpenter brothers, all of the crew, they were all… a family. They were a family and they were at home. All Bilbo had to remind him of that kind home were his mother’s ring and his father’s navigation watch. Maybe, Bilbo thought, maybe it’s time for a new family.

It was the third night of their voyage, but the first night that Bilbo slept in his bed. And as he did so, he did so soundly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nyeeegh. I can't get the start of this chapter to work for me, so sorry about that, but otherwise, ta-dah!
> 
> TRIVIA: Westron isn't actually called Westron. That's the English word, derived from 'west' - it's actually called Adûni. Also called Annúnaid (Westron), or Falathren (Shore-language) in Sindarin. :D
> 
> (I'm sorry, I really love the word hobbitian)

**Author's Note:**

> (Our fandom is seriously lacking in PoTC crossovers so I've taken matters into my own hands.) Surprisingly well-mannered pirates? I know. And yes, the Brethren Court, Pirate Court and White Council are all the same thing. Different races, different words for the same thing.
> 
> I couldn't tell you when the next chapter will be up because my beta has just abandoned me for England. Rude. (jks ily) But I'll work as fast as I can! Thank you so much for reading!


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